#9: All The Small Things

[00:00:29] Speaker A: Sheriff Rusty Hollis, a name you hear a lot around Hickory Bend, though mostly from his own mouth, a one man legend, a lawman forged in the fires of small town drama and baked under the dull lights of a very creaky, underfunded police department. In his mind he's part Wyatt Earp, part Elvis Presley, part philosophical cowboy, and falls somewhere between the Marlboro man and a department store mannequin that talks too much at 50 something, though he insists on early 50s with the same confidence he applies to his chili recipe. Rusty wears his khaki uniform like a second skin, tight across the belly, stretched at the seams, stained with coffee rings and barbecue fingerprints. His badge is polished daily, not by hand but by the repeated rubbing of his thumb. Whenever he tells a tall tale, which is often, he's got a gut that precedes him into every room in a strut, like he's permanently walking away from an explosion. It's slow, it's dramatic, and just slightly off balance. Folks in town say he once stared down a rabid coyote behind the Baptist church and didn't flinch. Rusty says the coyote cried. Others say it was just a possum and Rusty fainted. Either way, he tells the story like it's gospel. He considers himself the moral backbone of Hickory Bend, a protector of secrets, solver of mysteries, and unofficial mayor of the Waffle Shack. On Thursdays. He keeps a framed photo of himself shaking hands with a wax figure of Buford Pusser and has never once admitted it wasn't the real man. It's sometime after 8, maybe closer to 9. The sun, slow and syrupy, finally spills across the cracked front lawn of the old Harley place, painting the weeds gold and casting long, judgmental shadows from the porch railings like fingers pointing toward nowhere in particular. Bo Harley steps outside, all six foot, something of him, barefoot and broad shouldered, built like a man who wrestled trees for a living. He's shirtless, wearing only jeans that hang low and a belt buckle the size of a serving plate, as if to warn strangers and family alike don't get too close. His hair's a mess, sleep creased and defiant, and his expression suggests he's halfway between a hangover and a revelation. Rusty watches him from the cruiser, engine idling like a lazy hound. Bo Harley. Now there's a name, rusty says with a mixture of disdain and reluctant affection, like tasting something bitter that used to be sweet. In public he'd call him a prick with delusions of grandeur, but deep down, and Rusty hates admitting anything happens. Deep down he's always harbored a weird, bone deep fondness for the man. Maybe it was the way Bo once pulled him out of a ditch during a rainstorm a few years back. Or maybe it's just because Bo never pretended to like Rusty, which somehow made it easier. Behind Bo, like a ghost caught between decisions, Maisie Kurtz lingers in the hallway. She doesn't step out. She just stares down at her own bare feet, visible through the distorted glass of the storm door. She looks like she's listening for something, a whisper only she can hear. Her hair's tangled, pulled into a loose braid, and her hands are tucked into the sleeves of Bo's flannel shirt, hanging off her like it belongs to someone else. Which it does. Rusty notes this. All of it. He's got a sheriff's instinct for reading a scene like a book he's already read once in a dream. The lawn, the morning light, the lingering woman behind the glass. Something about it feels off kilter, like a record spinning at the wrong speed. He scratches his jaw, exhales through his nose, and makes a note in the little pad he keeps tucked in his breast pocket. Harley House Ate something. Sun's up. Everyone's pretending. With a heavy sigh and the dramatic flare of a man who believed the world revolved around his minor inconveniences, he rolled down the driver's side window with a mechanical whirr that seemed louder than it needed to be. Jesus, Bo, rusty muttered, voice dry as dust and twice as irritated. Can't you at least put a shirt on? You look like a damn beer commercial. Bo didn't flinch, didn't blink, just stood there a few steps away from his car like a statue built out of perfection, arms crossed, torso glistening slightly like he'd been sweating out secrets. He skipped the pleasantries. Sheriff, Bo said, voice low and flat, like he was talking through a hole in the universe. We found a body. There was a long silence during which the wind decided to play dead. Rusty close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His mind wandered not to the logistics, not to protocol, but to the exact moment his morning had been hijacked. Jennifer Hale, that overeager dispatcher with the peppy voice of a cartoon pony, had barged through the bullpen like the Queen of Doom, hollering something urgent while he was halfway through his post coffee sit down, a sacred ritual he honored daily with deep reverence. Along with a TV Guide crossword puzzle he'd been halfway through 42 across, seven letters, last name of Alf Shumway. It felt Right. But something in his gut said otherwise. And not just the gas. Now this. A body, of course. Where? Rusty asked finally. His voice was quieter now, less irritated, more resigned, like a man who knew this wasn't just a body but the start of one of those weeks, the kind that made the clocks tick funny and the dreams run backward. Bo jerked a thumb toward the backyard but didn't say a word. His eyes had drifted to somewhere else entirely, somewhere beyond the fence, past the trees, maybe into the place where memories go to rot. Rusty followed the gesture with his gaze, then leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed. Half a mile out behind the Harley house, maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less, was the Foxfire River. It wasn't on any tourist brochures or welcome center maps. It twisted too much, shimmered in ways water shouldn't, and had a habit of vanishing from overhead plains like it was shy or stubborn, or maybe just private. But Sheriff Rusty Hollis knew the river well, knew it in the bones, like a hymn you forget the words to but still hum on instinct. As a boy he used to walk there hand in hand with his paw, back when the old man still whistled and carried a rusted tackle box filled more with peppermint candies than bait. They'd sit for hours on the mossy bank, fishing for catfish that were probably imaginary and talking about nothing at all. Rusty remembered those talks more than the fish. Sometimes they didn't even bring fishing rods. Sometimes they just watched the river twitch like it was dreaming of a storm. Years later, as a teenager with a mop of greasy hair and a heart that beat too fast for its own good, Rusty had Skinny dipped in that same water with girls from school. Janine Tolliver, maybe. Or was it that weird girl from biology class who always smelled like wood glue? There'd been laughter, moonlight, someone playing the radio from a truck parked way too close to the edge. Those nights felt like folklore, like stories that had happened to someone else and just gotten stuck in his head. The river had a smell to it. Wet stone and something electric, like ozone, like old pennies and static. It made the hairs on your arm stand up. Some folks said it was cursed. Others said it was sacred. Rusty figured it was probably both, depending on what kind of mood it was in and what kind of soul you brought with you. He hadn't been back much in recent years. The job kept him busy. Or maybe he kept himself busy to avoid going back, because there were rumors, whispers. People had seen things in the water or heard things. Songs, screams, voices calling your name in a tone that was just wrong enough to make you wonder if you dreamed it. Still, Rusty never stopped thinking about the Foxfire. Not really. It showed up in his dream sometimes. Sometimes in color, sometimes in black and white, and once he swore it as a crossword clue. Seven letters. Place of memory and warning. Foxfire. He hadn't filled it in. Didn't need to. Some answers didn't belong on paper. So, rusty drawled, stepping out of the cruiser like he was stepping onto a stage no one asked him to perform on. Who decided to go and die this morning? Bo Harley shrugged with all the enthusiasm of a man trying to shake off a particularly stubborn dream. Didn't touch it, he said, voice flat but just twitchy enough to suggest he'd absolutely touched something. Ain't it a crime to tamper with the dead? Rusty squinted at him. Only if you do it with intent and both feet in the realm of stupid. Which, given your history, is likely. Bo scratched the back of his neck. Well, I got close enough to smell it. That count? That depends, rusty muttered, tilting his head. Did it smell like rot? Or did it smell like something that wanted to be smelled? Bo blinked. What does that even mean? Rusty tilted his head again. Like tuning in Invisible radio. The wind was doing its usual rustle through the ghost trees routine. But the birds? Nothing. Damn it, rusty whispered. They know. Bo looked at him. The birds? Rusty didn't answer. He just pulled out his notebook again, flipped to a page titled the Quiet Things, and added a fresh line under yesterday's entry. Today he wrote, no birds. Foxfire stirs. He tapped his pen once, hard against the COVID then looked up at the sky like it might offer advice. So you two came across it? Morning stroll? Something like that, bo said. Rusty studied Bo again. The hair. It was messy in that specific way that didn't come from a restless night's sleep, but from the kind of entanglement that involved sweat, urgency, and maybe a soundtrack no one would admit to. Shirtless, of course. Then his eyes drifted back to Maisie, still framed in the doorway like a painting in a haunted motel. She was wrapped in Beau's flannel shirt, big, soft, and hanging off her shoulders like she'd borrowed it in the middle of a storm and never gave it back. They both had that look. Not guilt, exactly. Not pride, either, just the dazed, faraway glint of people who'd recently been tangled up in something primal and messy and hadn't quite re entered their bodies yet. Rusty didn't judge. He just cataloged. It stirred something in him, a flicker of memory The Foxfire river under a lavender dusk. The smell of honeysuckle and Old Spice, and the unmistakable cackle of Janine Toliver as she pushed him backwards into the water with a laugh like a fire alarm. Yeah, it was definitely Janine Tolliver, the Blowjob Queen of Hickory Bend High School. Her words, not his, though she wore the title like a tiara. Shameless, fearless, smarter than she looked. Which was saying something because she'd once dissected a frog while applying eyeliner. The other one, the quiet girl from biology. Lynette, maybe. Now she had been the prude, always wearing turtlenecks and Jesus jewelry, glaring at Janine like sin was a contagious rash. But even she'd wandered down to the Fox Fire once. Rumor had it with a football player and a flask of cheap booze, that river had seen more awkward fumbling and cigarette lit confessions than the confessional booth at St. Mary's the banks of the Fox Fire weren't just muddy earth and overgrown weeds. They were Hickory Ben's unofficial lover's lane. Then and now. Generations of bad decisions soaked into its soil like blood into wood. Rusty glanced back toward the treeline. The river was out there, hiding in the trees, pretending to sleep. And now there was a body. Foxfire's always hungry, rusty muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek. And folks just keep feeding it. Bo furrowed his brow, his face a weathered barn of confusion. What's that supposed to mean? Rusty squinted at him like he was inspecting a jar of expired pickles. A man like you, a girl like her intimate privacy. River nearby. You see where I'm going? Bo blinked slow. Not really. That's fine, rusty said, waving his hand like he was shooing away a mosquito or ghost. You don't need to. I'm just thinking out loud. Dangerous habit, I know. Bo opened his mouth to say something, then didn't. Instead, he gave Rusty a blank stare. Rusty continued, his voice low, like he was narrating a bedtime story that ended with a scream. What I'm saying is two young, genetically blessed individuals such as yourselves, heading out past the weeds for a little recreational communion, shall we say? And lo and behold, you trip over a corpse. Now tell me, Bo, does that feel like coincidence to you? Bo folded his arms. Are you accusing me of something, Sheriff? Rusty chuckled. It wasn't warm. [00:16:23] Speaker B: I'm accusing the universe of having a twisted sense of humor, he said, scratching. [00:16:29] Speaker A: Behind his ear like he was tuning. [00:16:30] Speaker B: Into a frequency only he could hear. And you, my friend, just happened to show up at the punchline. Behind them, the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of river mud and something else. Something older, metallic, faintly sweet, like sugar rotting in a rusted tin. Rusty sniffed once, then turned his head toward the trees. Where exactly is it? Rusty asked, voice dipping low, his tone shifting into that rare register he reserved for serious matters like death dreams and the inexplicable twitch he sometimes got in his left eye before things went sideways. He was grounded now, focused, but there was still that glint flickering in the corner of his gaze, like a faulty light bulb that hummed just a second too long. A man half in the moment, half waiting for a signal from the beyond. Bo jerked his thumb over his shoulder, casual as a man pointing toward a gas station. Not a corpse. [00:17:40] Speaker A: Clear shot. [00:17:41] Speaker B: Straight back, he said. Past that old tree that got fried by lightning a few years ago. You remember the one that split like a peeled banana? [00:17:51] Speaker A: Rusty gave a soft grunt of recognition. Of course he remembered. That tree gave him the creeps. Kids in town said it bled SAP that looked like motor oil someone had carved. I know. Into the bark. And no one knew why. Bo continued scratching the back of his neck. There it was, just floating at the edge, caught on a root, face down, barely moving, like it was thinking about getting up. But change its mind? Rusty nodded slowly, scribbling again in his notepad as if he'd actually look at it later. Man or woman? Man, bo muttered. Wearing a suit. Shiny in that way funeral fabric shines. Missing a shoe. Rusty squinted into the trees, like the body might suddenly wave from the distance. He let out a slow breath, half sigh, half whistle. Someone's still wearing their Sunday best on a Tuesday, he said with a crooked chuckle. That's either devotion or a hell of a wrong turn. He looked down at the ground as if expecting it to speak up. Dead people don't just end up in the foxfire by accident, rusty added, mostly to himself. That's rivers picky. It don't want just anybody. Bo didn't answer. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, and also like he knew he wasn't getting off that easy. Rusty turned and started toward the tree line, boots crunching on dead grass, hand resting just above his holster like maybe the trees might try something. He glanced once more over his shoulder at Beau, at Maisie in the doorway, still watching with those wide, far off eyes. The birds still weren't singing. Not a damn one. Well, throw on a damn shirt, rusty said, flicking a lazy hand toward Bo's bare chest. And get some pants on your girl while you're at it. We got some exploring to do. Bo didn't offer a word, didn't roll his eyes, didn't snarl, just turned and started up the porch steps, quiet as fog. The door creaked as he went inside, the sound slicing the silence like a memory you weren't ready to remember. Maisie was still in the doorway, only now she was looking up. Rusty met her eyes for just a second, just long enough for something unsaid to pass between them like static on an old television set. Her gaze was glassy, heavy, like she'd just come back from a long walk through her own mind and hadn't yet unpacked the suitcase. Then she turned away. Rusty stood there a moment longer, scratching his jaw, chewing the inside of his cheek again like it was a bad habit he planned on keeping. She was pretty, he thought, in that wilted flower sort of way, the kind that doesn't bloom anymore but still smells like spring if the wind hits it right. Damaged goods, though. The phrase slid through his brain like a bad tune stuck on repeat. Not her fault. Not really. Her old man, Abel Kurtz, had been the kind of man who made others drink just by being in the room. An alcoholic, a Sunday yeller, a Tuesday hitter. Laid hands on his wife more times than anyone could count, and no one did. Rusty had arrested him once, back in 87, but the charges blew away in the wind, as they tended to in Hickory Bend. Abel dropped dead of a heart attack three years back, in line at the dmv, of all places, face planted right on the paperwork. He and Rusty were the same age, played varsity football together once. Though Able always thought he was the quarterback of the world. Still a prick right up until his heart gave out, Rusty thought. Then, blessedly, he wasn't anything at all. The world hadn't wept, Rusty sure didn't. Even God probably. Shrugged. He took one last look at the porch, then turned toward the trees, the path already unfolding before him like a slow revelation. Rusty adjusted his buckle, let out a grunt. His muttered to no one in particular, time to go see what the river coughed up this time.